by Quinn, Cari
“How?” He pulled out of the flood of foot traffic and lowered her to the sidewalk.
“How what?”
Off center, she crashed into his side and he took the opportunity to drag her closer. “How could you even see a sign with all this chaos?” She waved her hand into the melee. There was so much neon and so many signs they just blurred into one big mess.
He shrugged. “I knew the name.” With that bit of intrigue and an arm around her shoulder, he swept her into the crowd again. They’d flashed by brownstones and stucco, brick and neon. She didn’t even know what street they were on anymore. How the hell could he know where they were?
“Do you have a GPS in your brain or something?”
He laughed and brushed a kiss over her forehead. “I grew up all over the place, remember?”
“Yeah, well, so did I.”
“Girls have a shitty sense of direction?”
She slugged him in the belly. As usual he barely noticed, just kept moving forward, dragging her along to his own plan. “Deacon, give me a little hint.”
“Let’s just say that the bus ride was damn long. And Netflix got me through a lot of boring days and nights.”
“And that has what to do with Nashville? You don’t exactly seem the type to be watching Hayden Panettiere.”
He snorted. “I do seem to have a thing for tiny, smokin’ hot blondes.”
“Get real.” But the belly flipping pleasure still arrowed through her. She was just a chef. A no-name chef at the moment.
His dimple deepened. “I watched a lot of tattoo shows. This one guy that competed was fucking awesome. And I saw his name on this board. He’s doing a three day workshop and holding night appointments.”
“And you made an appointment?”
“Nah. I just want to check him out. If he can fit me in, I’ll see what’s what.”
“So, on your day off you’re going to subject your skin to raw, sizzling pain?”
He stopped in front of a huge window with “Monster Ink” emblazoned on the glass in scripted letters. She looked up at him, and his green eyes were sparkling for a different reason now.
She wasn’t sure whether to be offended or intrigued that he’d switched gears so easily. Now he wanted to inflict pain on himself?
She could bite if he liked a little pain.
“You did see my ink, right?”
Steering her brain back to the subject at hand, she grazed her knuckle along his forearm where Oblivion was stamped and then to his left bicep. Oh, she remembered the ink. The first time she saw him that had been one of the more memorable aspects to him. Next to his eyes.
“I saw.” She scraped her nail over the splatter of red and black, pushing up the sleeve to get a better look. Now that she had access to his body, she could explore and sate her curiosity. A Treble clef and a bass clef made a yin yang sort of deal on his upper arm with splashes of red and black behind it like blood splatter and ink had a shootout.
It was eighteen kinds of hot. Although that could have something to do with the network of muscles. She couldn’t remember a gym freak that had ever turned her on like Deacon. Most of them seemed too into themselves, but Deacon didn’t do any flexing or posturing to get people to notice him.
Hell, he didn’t need to. His height did that whether he wanted it to or not. But he seemed at ease with his body. Fluid and graceful on stage and off. It was a little off-putting to tell the truth. She had complete control in the kitchen, but outside of that? Not so much.
He slid his fingers into her hair, tipping her face up to his. “The tat isn’t going to change no matter how much you rub at it.”
She rolled her eyes and tried to push him away. When he didn’t budge she laughed. “Ass.” But he continued to look down at her, his eyes shone in the dim light of the neon and glass. “What?”
“Maybe the tattoo guy isn’t all that interesting after all.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He crowded in on her. She brushed her nose along the firm ridge of muscle under his shirt, closing her eyes when his ocean scent curled around her. Slipping her hand around his back and along the smooth skin of his back shouldn’t have felt so natural, but God it did. The light sheen of sweat that gathered in the dip of his spine made her wonder just how drenched they’d end up once their clothes disappeared.
No, you are the one that wanted to slow down remember, Harper Lee?
The light rumble in his chest made her open her eyes just in time to see him coming in for a kiss. He stopped, inches away from her mouth. He cupped her face so gently. This huge man that could snap from playful to gentle in a nanosecond left her so unbalanced.
And she wasn’t used to being unbalanced, dammit. She cleared her throat. “Well come on. Let’s go see this guy.”
He followed the curve of her cheek with a slow sweep of his thumb. “Plenty of time, Harper.”
Why was it that when he said her name it sounded like a promise instead of the plain old masculine name it felt like usually? And this time when his lips met hers it stayed sweet. The rush of need simmered between them instead of overflowing. His lips were soft and almost hesitant. As if learning just what she needed in the moment.
Following the dip of his spine up to where his back broadened, she coasted back down until she could cup his butt. He grunted, then she felt his lips curve into a smile, breaking the kiss. She took the opportunity to unglue herself. Off balance. Need peppered the air between them. They were in the middle of the freaking sidewalk and she was ready to climb him like a damn tree.
And she’d known him for less than a week.
So she let her mouth curve into a grin. Smiling and flirting were safe. “So where do you want the tat if he’s going to work on you?”
He slid a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Something on my back.”
“No ink on your back yet?”
“Nope.” He hovered over her mouth, his intent clear. More kissing. And she would be one big pile of gooey, needy awfulness if she kissed him any longer. He was way too good at it.
She stepped back, her smile widening when he tried to pull her back. But just like that, her gentle giant let her go and followed her to the door of the tattoo parlor. She turned, her skin buzzing at the simple contact of their fingers intertwined. Breathing easier because his all-too intense gaze was off her and his smell was out of her nostrils, she led him through the crush of bodies.
A woman stood at a podium, her face bland with an I-don’t-give-two-shits-what-you-want-I-am-the-gatekeeper look. Jet black hair in a skull hugging cut framed her incredible face. Her creamy skin was dusted with freckles. Not the cute kind. They were more of the large and in your face style, just like the woman seemed to be. But they weren’t a detriment. In fact she made Harper feel very plain.
The Amazon’s make-up was done to emphasize the tilt of her eyes and play up feline green eyes. Part of her wanted to stumble back a step, but Harper knew that would be a mistake. She glanced at the woman’s name tag. It was one of those Hello My Name is stickers. The name—No.
Deacon hooked their joined fingers against her belly as he crowded in behind her.
“Looks like quite a line. Guess he’s booked up, huh?”
“Ya think?”
Harper smothered a smile. Genteel southerner this woman was not.
“I’m assuming we aren’t getting in.” Harper kept her voice mild and friendly minus the sugar.
“Well, aren’t you a smart blonde. It’s a miracle.”
Deacon stiffened behind her, but Harper held up a hand. “Obviously No doesn’t have any spaces available. And she’s probably been badgered quite a bit.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly.”
“Is there a spot where the big guy can at least watch one of the tattoos being done? He’s a fan.”
No obviously relaxed her shoulders and nodded to a line of people at a large glass window. “He can watch from over there.”
Harper looked over her shoulder. “L
ooks like your height will come in handy, Deacon. You can see right over their heads.”
Disappointment clouded his eyes, but he nodded. “Yeah, if you’re cool with it, I’d like to watch for a few minutes.”
“Oh, hey.” They both turned back to the woman. “We’ve got a drawing for a consultation. Because we knew there’d be a big line.”
“Thanks.” Harper smiled at the woman then looked up at Deacon. “Why don’t you go take a look and I’ll fill it out.”
“You sure?”
Politeness was etched on his face, but she could tell he really wanted to be among the horde. “Go.”
The grin that spread across his face was well worth the loud crush of people and what would be a boring hour or more for her. Deacon’s pleasure could become addictive.
Harper turned back to the woman, and her unflinching stare. “What?”
“He’s not pushing for an appointment.”
“He’s not the type to be rude.” Harper huffed out a laugh. “He’d probably bite off his own tongue first.”
“He’s Deacon McCoy.”
Realization hit. Deacon was growing in fame. He didn’t act like anything other than a sweet man that just happened to play bass for a band that was exploding across the rock scene. Why was it so easy for her to forget that?
Sure, Simon, Nick and Gray were the more easily recognized—especially Simon since he was the lead singer. But the sheer size of Deacon made him a commanding presence. She saw how people reacted to him. They half expected him to be famous just because he was larger than life. And yet, he never acted entitled. Something told her he wouldn’t lose that aspect either.
She looked over her shoulder. Deacon stood at the back of the hallway, his hands tucked into his oversized cargo shorts. He wore a simple red t-shirt with the iconic script Ford emblazoned across his chest. Regular guy should have been stamped across him and yet somehow it simply wasn’t.
“He’s just a nice guy.” Harper shrugged.
“So I see.” After a pause, she spoke again, holding out her hand. “I’m Kate.”
Harper shook her hand then pulled the paper in front of her to scribble down his name and her cell on the ticket. She’d practically crawled into Deacon’s skin, but they hadn’t traded cell phone numbers yet. Too weird. She handed over the ticket. “Nice to meet you, Kate.”
Instead of putting the ticket in the fish bowl, Kate slid it into her pocket. Not sure what to make of that, Harper made her way into the crowd. The window was completely blocked by people at this point. And her own five-foot-three inch self couldn’t see jack. The funny thing was that both men and women were watching in rapt attention.
Deacon included.
It was going to be a long evening.
Eight
August 19, 12:12 AM - Close as Breath
The chatter of excited voices and the oppressive heat of the night was getting to her. She understood a concert. Watching some guy tattoo a stranger? Not so much. But Deacon’s attention barely shifted from the window.
The faraway look in his eyes was new as well. She was getting used to him being so…well, present when he was around her. He was overwhelmingly intense and sexy as all get out. And he made her feel tiny and special.
But here, in this place, she felt like a girlfriend. Maybe this was why she never really had a boyfriend. Hanging around and pretending she was interested was boring. Especially when it included a crowd.
She missed her kitchen and her tools. She’d rather pipe four hundred cupcakes than stand there a minute longer. And why was she standing here? Harper opened her mouth to ask Deacon if they could leave when his hand lightly brushed her nape and he pulled her into his side. He curled his arm around her shoulder. “Ready to get out of here?”
“Yes.”
He seemed to snap back into the attentive man she was growing used to. He leaned down and brushed his mouth over hers. “You’ve indulged me long enough.”
“I have been very patient.”
“And I’ll make sure to reward you.”
“I do like the sound of that,” she said against his mouth. “I couldn’t see anything, but I’m assuming he finished.”
“Yeah. Really impressive. There’s a reason he made it to the top three in the United States.”
“Satisfied now?”
His eyes took on a sleepy, hooded look that curled her toes.
“Not even close.”
She fought a smile, but lost the battle.
He grazed the tips of his fingers just above her chest. Her nipples instantly reacted. Again, saved by Wonder Bra, or the entire room would know how easily this man turned her on.
She ducked out from under his arm, catching his fingers as she snaked through the crowd.
“Deacon McCoy.”
Harper swung around to the voice. Deacon’s shoulders straightened immediately. Hell, even hers did. The voice was commanding and deep. And that was saying something when she had Deacon’s voice lodged into the permanent turn-on files in her brain.
A man stood in the middle of the room. People actually made room for him with low murmurs. He wore a muscle shirt in blinding white. Smears of ink slashed across his chest in vibrant colors. His arms were a collage of colorful art over sinewy muscle, skulls and snakes being the dominant theme. Heavy black-rimmed glasses accentuated his ridiculous chiseled features.
But it was the startling light green eyes that pinned them in place.
Deacon’s grip tightened.
“Fan?” she whispered.
“That’s Casey Wilde.”
“Who’s Casey Wilde,” she asked out of the side of her mouth. At Deacon’s bland look she winced. “Sorry, I didn’t pay attention. Is that the artist’s name?”
“Devil’s in the details, babe. And I am all details,” Casey said in answer.
“Crap.”
Deacon didn’t let go of her hand when he stepped forward, his other hand outstretched. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wilde.”
The man’s left eyebrow shot up. “I’m a year older than you.”
Deacon grinned. “Casey then.”
“You want to get inked?”
Without hesitation, he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I got a camera crew with me. Problem?”
Deacon shook his head. “Show me where to sign.”
“Sign what?” she blurted out.
“A waiver.”
“In case I fuck up on screen,” Casey said amiably. “But you’re good press, Deacon McCoy.” His head tilted up a little to meet Deacon’s gaze. “And you’re a big fucker.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Casey barked out a laugh and slapped his upper arm. “I might have to give away a few free tats to fit you in, but getting you on the show is worth it. Oh, I’m starting a new television show, by the way.”
“No shit.”
“Yes. And you’re my first celebrity.”
“If you made three calls you could have guys bigger than me. Hell, we’re touring with Rebel Rage.”
“Yes, but Oblivion is in the current news. Besides, I’ve already inked Johnny. What are you looking for, Deacon?”
“How much time do you have to give me?”
Casey rolled his shoulders. “I’m good for anything.”
“I’ve got a blank canvas on my back.”
Casey nodded. “Let’s see.”
“Right here?” Deacon looked around the crowded room.
An awestruck semi-circle had formed. Harper felt the energy blowing out around the two men. Both artists in their own right, and both men that people paid attention to instinctively. If Harper had come upon Casey in the street, she’d be hard-pressed not to stare at him. And lord knew she couldn’t keep her eyes off Deacon.
If her heart rate accelerated any more she was going to need an ambulance. Sweet Pete, they were both beautiful. Casey prowled around Deacon. Instinctively, she backed up and out of the circle. This wasn’t about her in the least.
“Jesus, you really are a big fucker,” Casey muttered again. “Lose the shirt.”
Yes, please.
No. She was not going to swoon over this man. She’d seen plenty of men without their… “My God.”
“Oh, girl. That’s your man?”
“What?” Harper asked, but she didn’t really care what random woman had asked her because she couldn’t pull her gaze away from Deacon. She’d felt him under his shirt. She’d been wrapped around him, but to actually see him without a shirt was distracting.
He was tan. Every inch of him rippled with muscle and sinew. He wasn’t overly vascular like some gym-types were, but he was positively ripped. And that was just the back. His shoulders were damn impressive under a shirt, but without one?
Awe-inspiring.
A tight waist flowed into his low-slung cargos. For the love of all things good and kind on this earth, he even had those dimples above his ass like she saw in pictures of models.
He was a damn Adonis under the vintage t-shirt. Any other man with a body like his would be wearing a white tank top and showing it off at all times.
To add into the not-freaking-fair column, he didn’t have a hair on him. At least on his back. She sidestepped until she caught the front of him and lost her breath. Six pack? Nope. He had an eight pack of solid muscle with pecs that rivaled any leading male in Hollywood. A light sprinkling of hair spread across his chest and then a darker trail started just above his navel and disappeared under his pants.
“You’re killing me, Harper.”
His voice broke her trance.
Shameless hussy.
Yep.
“Yeah, well the feeling is mutual.”
“If you let me do what I want on your back, I’ll do it for free.”
You can say that again.
Obviously surprised, Deacon’s attention returned to Casey. “What are we talking?”
“Full coverage.”
“In one session?” Deacon asked steadily.
“C’mon back and we’ll figure out a sketch.”
Deacon nodded and pulled his shirt back on. The collective awws that sprinkled through the crowd made her smile. Deacon rolled his eyes and held out a hand for hers.